


War

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21404968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel’s less impressive than he thinks.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	War

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Though there are many fine warriors within Imladris’ guard, Elrond is the only who can truly keep up with Glorfindel. He enjoys sparring with different friends, Elrond’s sons included, but matches with Elrond are the only ones where he ever breaks a sweat. Though he’s glad that the later generations have never faced a war so great as to demand more strength, he’s always thrilled when he meets a proper foe. He enjoys having Elrond parry moves that should have no defense. He delights in Elrond forcing him back across the garden. He even finds pleasure in being knocked onto his rear, but then he rises again, all the more fueled to _win_.

He fights Elrond back. He drives his sword forward in a spiral, trapping Elrond’s against it, forcing Elrond aside, and then he’s swiping at Elrond’s chest, and Elrond just barely manages to stumble back. Their blades aren’t dulled, and they don’t wear armour, just the usually training garb—plain trousers and loose tops, their hair free and flowing in the wind. They’re both skilled enough to keep from ever drawing blood, though they come perilously close. Glorfindel dodges Elrond’s next blow, spinning back and returning a swipe that just barely misses Elrond’s chin. He swivels away, and Glorfindel surges forward with a battle cry: his final charge. He drives Elrond back, distracting him with a swing of the sword, then kicking him square in the middle. Elrond gasps and reels onto the ground. 

Glorfindel goes in for the blow that would kill any other, knowing full well that Elrond will squirm away. But before he can bring down his sword, a harsh voice pierces, “My lord!”

Glorfindel steps back. He glances aside to see Erestor racing towards them, robes and hair whipping behind him. Glorfindel glows with pride. Not only has he won, but he’s done so before the elf that he most wants to impress. He’s proven himself a greater warrior than even the lord he serves. 

But Erestor doesn’t so much as glance at him. Erestor races to Elrond’s side, dropping down to kneel in the grass. He carefully helps Elrond up, cooing worriedly, “Are you alright, my lord?”

“I am fine,” Elrond answers, the slightest smile on his lips—one of clear amusement. Before he can explain any further, Erestor’s head snaps to Glorfindel. 

He practically snarls, “How _dare_ you. How could you harm our lord so?”

Glorfindel blinks. Dazed, he murmurs, “We were only practicing—”

“With _real_ swords? You could have killed him!”

“I would never—”

“You are far too reckless, Glorfindel! This is your folly!”

Glorfindel splutters uselessly. Erestor helps Elrond rise, and Elrond insists, “I am alright. There is no need to fret. We were only practicing, as two warriors should—”

“No elf should ever raise a sword to you.”

Elrond actually closes his mouth, so intense is Erestor’s gaze. Glorfindel feels much the same. Then Erestor is moving, marching towards him—Erestor snatches his wrist and drags him off. Glorfindel follows, sparing Elrond one last helpless look.

When they’ve left Elrond’s earshot, Erestor hisses, “What were you _thinking?_”

It’s a strange sensation, to feel so thoroughly chastised by a mere servant, when he used to have a dozen attending to him. Glorfindel mumbles sheepishly, “I would never have truly hurt him...”

“But you could have. He is half mortal, Glorfindel, and he is _old_. He cannot recover from wounds the way that you could, nor should he have to. He has earned his rest, his peace, and that is precisely what Imladris is. It is _not_ a battleground.”

Erestor stops walking, and Glorfindel realizes that they’ve reached his quarters. Erestor opens the door and gestures inside. Stunned, Glorfindel obeys.

He walks into his own room, turns around, and Erestor tells him, “Do not ever do that again.” Then the door slams shut, leaving Glorfindel to ponder what he’s done.


End file.
